


The Contrarian Bard

by TheMalapert



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, A Ring is involved, And is for once better at expressing them, Except it's only 4, First Time, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier is exceedingly stupid, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Love Confessions, M/M, Stupidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26534689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalapert/pseuds/TheMalapert
Summary: You’ve heard of clueless Geralt? Well, let me introduce you to clueless Jaskier!ORFour times Geralt tells Jaskier he loves him, and one time Jaskier believes it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 559





	The Contrarian Bard

1

The night is a cool respite against the day’s sweltering heat. Jaskier sits, doublet discarded, idly strumming his lute. It’s a tune Geralt can’t quite place, but it leaves an old nostalgia in the back of his mind like tasting a sweet his mother used to give him. They need no fire. The moon rose early, bright and full to cast everything in a silvery glow. It masks the slight blush on Jaskier’s cheeks that Geralt has found himself causing more often lately. Settled in for the night, when their eyes met Jaskier quickly looked away, fumbling the next chord, and that blush rising on his cheeks. On hot nights like this, Geralt could follow the blush down Jaskier’s neck into the blanket of hair peeking over his chemise. He likes to think that hair is soft, wonders what it would be like to lay his head there. 

Even if he can’t see the blush, he can smell it, and Jaskier’s scent is the most confusing of all. Geralt is used to the putrid sweat-stink of humans who shy away from his path or try to pick a fight. It’s fear, nerves, he knows. It’s a disappointing scent to live in, but his life isn’t about his nose. He has a job to do. Despite that job—the danger, the miles, a Witcher’s reputation—Jaskier only stinks of effort sweat. Stage nerves sweat. Sex sweat. 

Geralt likes that one the best. The perfumes are sometimes nice, sometimes overwhelming. He would never admit it to the bard, but his favorite perfumes are the chamomile and lavender. Under those though, Geralt sometimes catches the sweet scent of Jaskier’s lust. Often when they’re alone, when there isn’t anyone to pique Jaskier’s interest. Except Geralt, that is. 

He’s become used to Jaskier. The bard’s presence, his chatter, his inane indignation at the slightest slight. Even Roach seems to like him, no matter how much he scowls when Jaskier pets her. Two years isn’t exactly the blink of an eye. It’s probably been a lot longer for Jaskier, but Geralt knows how much time they’ve been in each other’s lives. Especially considering he’s a Witcher. Though there are times when Jaskier makes him feel… almost human. Or like it doesn’t matter. 

The feelings, like warm brandy and the ease of knowing he’s _safe_ , swirl in his stomach. Considering all the time Jaskier spends waxing poetic about emotions, he figures Jaskier might have some advice. 

“Jaskier.” His voice sounds rough after the dulcet tones of the lute, and he tries to smooth it out. “I think I’m in love with you.”

The lute goes silent. 

Jaskier’s bright blue eyes seem almost silver, owlishly bulging in the moonlight. Fitting, Geralt thinks. Gold and silver. 

Jaskier’s tongue dampens his lips, and they curl with the kind of smile Jaskier gives to the refugees before singing them a tune to pep their step. 

“I shouldn’t think so, my friend. You’ve never encountered someone like me before,” Jaskier begins. His chin dips as he says, “Someone who finds you more man than monster who isn’t one of your brothers. You don’t even call me a friend, Geralt. What you’re feeling is the budding warmth of friendship, I’d suspect, but no matter. I’d prefer a confession unmeant to a lifetime of held tongues, anyways.”

“I’ve had friends,” Geralt replies, but he has certainly never wanted to smooch Mousesack in the moonlight. 

Geralt takes his eyes off of Jaskier’s fidgeting hands. He supposes Jaskier could be right. For all his eighty-some years, he does trust that Jaskier has run through more love than he will ever. It’s perhaps the only wisdom Jaskier can offer. 

2

He pins Jaskier back against the door, the bard’s leg wrapping around his waist. Geralt moves his hands from the clasps on the doublet to Jaskier’s ass. He heaves, pulling Jaskier up so the man is trapped between Geralt and the door, delicious weight pressing against Geralt’s already straining cock. It still isn’t close enough. He won’t ever be close enough to Jaskier. His hands finish tearing at the doublet, and Jaskier quickly throws it off along with his chemise. Geralt finally takes the opportunity to nuzzle his face into Jaskier’s chest. It’s not as soft as he’d thought, but it’s better because Jaskier keens, arching his back. Geralt takes one nipple between his teeth, tugs and rolls it. Jaskier’s hands find their way into Geralt’s hair, and it’s ripped out of its ties, full silver mass bunching under the bard’s fingers. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier groans, tugging at the Witcher’s hair. Geralt follows and greedily dives back to Jaskier’s mouth that’s all teeth and plush lips. 

Geralt heaves them away from the door, not missing a beat as he licks into Jaskier’s mouth. Two dizzying seconds later, and he dumps the bard onto the lumpy straw mattress. Despite being in a town whose name Geralt has already forgotten, Jaskier stretches out as if on the finest silks. Like one of those pampered concubines who knows they’re the King’s favorite. 

Geralt drops immediately to the ties on Jaskier’s trousers, but Jaskier bats his hands away, taking over. 

“You have yet to disrobe, darling,” Jaskier reminds him. Suddenly, Geralt wants nothing more than to shuck off his clothes—too hot and confining. He rips them off like they’re poisoned and crawls over Jaskier who is likewise now naked. He drinks the sight in from the strong calves that keep pace with a Witcher’s horse to the callused fingertips of a musician. 

And Jaskier’s _cock._

Geralt can’t help but lean down for a taste. The head is already swollen, looking to burst, and he tastes a bead of precome when he wraps his lips around it and sucks. Jaskier’s moans are about as pretty as his cock. Geralt finds himself tonguing down the length of the bard while staring into those dark, blue eyes. Jaskier breaks first, eyes squeezing shut as Geralt sucks a bruise into his thigh. 

His mouth rounds, perplexingly quiet, like Geralt’s mouth is the one thing that can make him speechless. 

Geralt grins at the thought and abandons the bard’s cock, slinking up to steal another searing kiss. His cock is hard, head reeling, and he thinks of all the beasts he’s faced, a little human bard is going to be his death. 

“I love you,” he whispers against Jaskier’s lips. The bard responds with a nip to his jaw and a hand on the Witcher’s cock. 

“I hate to always disagree—“

“No you don’t,” Geralt growls, but the edge is lost with a tug of Jaskier’s hand. 

“It’s euphoric isn’t it? I get it, Geralt, and I know it’s all new and exciting right now. Gods know I’ve sped through the honeymoon phase with many a fair maiden—“ Geralt delivers a bite to Jaskier’s neck for telling lies. No one’s a maiden when Jaskier is through with them. “But I’m afraid it’s mostly— _ah—_ lust, darling. We’ve been dancing around this for years, the thrill of the chase and all that. You don’t have to say it so lofty for me. It’ll fade in time.”

Geralt doesn’t want to think Jaskier is right. He went along with it last time, but he’s been brooding over it for five years now. If it’s not love, the world needs a new word. 

But then again, it’s not like he fucks many people that actually _know_ him like Jaksier knows him. None, in fact. 

Geralt lets it drop and goes back to enthusiastically taking his bard apart. 

3

He thinks on it for another decade or so. It’s hard to tell. Time with Jaskier seems both so fast and so fleeting. At every turn, he caught himself with Jaskier’s words— _well maybe it isn’t…_ if he snaps at Jaskier more than occasionally it’s only because the spiral puts him in a bad mood. Geralt doesn’t like being confused. He likes Jaskier though, and they don’t stop sleeping together. So what if it isn’t love? Geralt feels good, happy even, with his bard. He doesn’t need the soul bond that Jaskier writes songs about (when he isn’t writing songs about Geralt.)

Things only get worse when Yennefer came around. Or do they get better? It’s hard to hold so much love-not-love in his chest and still have room to breathe. What he feels for Yennefer is so different from Jaskier, and _finally_ , he thinks, this _must_ be love. 

Then it all goes tits up. 

His fault, mostly, but maybe if Jaskier hadn’t been so—if the bard had just done what he was told—if he had just let Geralt love or not love him, maybe he wouldn’t have ever broken Yennefer’s heart. 

He wallows in it for exactly three months before seeing his bard again. 

“Drowners,” is the first thing he blurts out. “A fine bard like yourself probably won’t find them much of interest.”

There’s something familiar in Jaskier’s eyes. 

“I think I’ll tag along. Never know when the true heroics might happen.”

When they make camp after a laughably easy fight with the drowners, Jaskier puts his bedroll on the opposite side of the fire. 

It’s fine, Geralt tells himself. He loads the fire up extra high; he might have to go wood scrounging at dawn. Countless shared bedrolls flash through his mind, but Jaskier is allowed to want space. Even if Geralt knows it’s cold, too cold for a human. Geralt burrows into his bedroll. He can’t see Jaskier past the fire, but he can hear the shivered breaths and rustle of shaking knees against wool. He waits because usually when Jaksier decides it’s too cold to go it alone, he packs up and slithers into Geralt’s blankets. 

_Heat tax_ , Jaskier says. _I don’t take commission off your coin, so the least you can do is repay me in warmth._

Geralt can’t argue with that logic. He usually wraps his arms around Jaskier, legs tangling together by morning. Except Jaskier isn’t coming over. He’s just shivering. 

Needing space or not, the bard is going to be up all night at this rate. Geralt moves silently, coming to Jaskier’s bedroll before the bard has a chance to decline. 

“Jask.” 

Jaskier moves over, so Geralt can slide in. Geralt maneuvers him to his side so he’s facing the fire. Fire ahead, Geralt behind, his shivers slowly subside. It takes no time at all after that for Jaskier to fall asleep. 

Geralt basks in the sound of Jaskier’s even breathing, his deep, rhythmic heartbeat. He’s missed it since the mountain. He doesn’t ever want to part again without the guarantee that he can return to this. To Jaskier’s side, keeping him warm. Safe. 

“I love you,” he says into the nape of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier’s slightly too long hair tickles his lip, and he thinks he knows a town around here with a good barber. 

4

Things with Yennefer have never been better. After almost losing her at Sodden, he thought he was going to have to try so hard to reach her, try so hard like the past decade chasing her. But it seemed they both did some growing on their own. They don’t try the love thing again. Geralt’s glad. He can only take one confusing romance at a time. Yennefer takes Ciri in the summers while he travels with Jaskier. He misses his lion cub, misses them both to be honest, but the Path calls. And the Path has the added bonus of Jaskier. 

Even if he drags his feet at every stall in the market. He knows his way back to the inn. Geralt is in the process of deserting him when Jaskier calls, “Geralt! Oh, would you look at this ring?”

Jaskier presents Geralt with a gold band of vines winding around a bright emerald. The work speaks for itself, tiny leaves boasting hours of specialized precision. 

“This is the kind of ring a dedicated lover procures for their soulmate. Can you imagine a dashing knight riding up to his princess love with any less? Oh, of course, yes, very impractical. I see that scowl.”

Is he scowling? He doesn’t intend to scowl. He softens his face, digging out his fluffier emotions to try and match the bard. 

Jaskier stops talking, eyes blinking like he got some dust to the face. 

“And, true love—ah.”

The shopkeeper interrupts with a price quote three times what it was worth, eyeing Geralt the whole time. 

Jaskier laughs in his face, declaring the emerald a laughable fake. He drops it back to the table without another glance and is on to the next stall. Geralt lets his natural scowl intimidate the shopkeeper, but he takes one last look at the ring. 

In fact, he thinks about it for another six months until Jaskier is off at a bardic competition, and he has just saved the life of a jeweler. A jeweler who likes Jaskier’s songs _way_ too much. He apparently tried to make it as a bard for a while, but he was so shit at the lute that he’s back to jewels. 

Geralt orders it in silver. Much more useful than gold, will keep the bard safer. He has to settle for peridot instead of real emeralds, but he doesn’t think Jaskier will mind. Or even know. It’s ready within the week, rush order considering Geralt is out of the region as soon as he tracks down the bruxa. He has it when he meets Jaskier again. 

“You should have seen his face! I’m glad I couldn’t wish him dead because it’s worth the world to see the great Valdo Marx place _third!”_ Jaskier won the competition, of course, but as always he focuses on gloating about who lost. He’s pacing after their bath, wet hair pushed out of his face. Geralt especially loves to fuck Jaskier with his wet hair because it usually dries by the time they’re done, and it’s a huge fucking mess. Jaskier weeps and wails about it, one of his more peacock-ish qualities. 

As Jaskier retells his triumphant win for the third time, now with new synonyms, Geralt sets the ring next to Jaskier’s pack. 

“Really, I wish you could have been there. You especially love putting ponces into their place, and I—“ He spots the ring and picks it up with slow fingers. “Geralt, you—“

He turns, and finally, Geralt thinks, that’s finally the look of a man in love. His cheeks flushed, eyes bright, smile wide enough to split his dry lip. 

“You knew I would win, didn’t you,” Jaskier trilled. 

Geralt tilts his head ever so slightly. The bard slides into his lap, twirling the ring around his fingers. 

“Seeing Valdo’s expression was reward enough, but this…” Jaskier’s scent blooms with lust, no matter that they’d just fucked in the bath. “You secretly like my compositions. Admit it.” His fingers lace into Geralt’s hair, and the Witcher can feel the bump of the ring. 

“I like you,” Geralt replies simply. 

Jaskier presses a kiss to his jaw and says, “My performance is quite… extraordinary.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt is suddenly occupied with a very horny bard. 

+1 

Maybe he should ask the bard to Kaer Morhen. It’s on the tip of his tongue, like every year. Ciri hugs him hard; it’s not often her path crosses with Jaskier, but they always seem to have a good time. If the bard comes to the keep for winter, he can sing his heart out for Ciri and teach her the lute like he promises and not be away from Geralt. The bard never asks though. He’s the one that always breaks off to Oxenfurt before they get too far away.

“Will we see you again?” Ciri asks, and Geralt smirks. Of course you’ll see him again, Geralt wants to say. Jaskier always finds his way back. 

“One can never know, young cub. One day is daisies and then next you’re fleeing the country with naught but your lute and your skivvies.” Ah, the infamous _de Stael_ tale, Geralt has heard it many times, but he hardly thinks it’s appropriate here. Ciri flits off to ask Yennefer if she can save one of Jaskier’s songs in a bottle. 

Geralt stares at Jaskier. 

“Why did you say that?”

Jaskier seems confused; there’s that little wrinkle in his brow and the pursing of his lips. 

“Well, I’m not going to lie to her, Geralt. We both know our chosen paths often… diverge.” His eyes flick down. Geralt doesn’t like how he seems to be retreating. Jaskier’s back hunches, head drawing low, arms coming to shield his stomach. 

“Then come to Kaer Morhen with us. Stay this time,” Geralt says. It only makes Jaskier brace one foot back, body shifting slightly away. 

“I think even Ciri would tire of me,” he tries to joke, but Geralt steps in, staring, picking apart Jaskier and not liking what he sees. 

“You really don’t get it do you?” Geralt says through his teeth. 

“Geralt—“

“Ciri!” Geralt calls, and she’s at his side the next instant. He drops a hand to her shoulder, a familiar gesture, and asks, “Who am I in love with?”

Ciri glances between both men, and she doesn’t miss the tension. 

“Jaskier,” she answers as though it was a very base-level monster question. Geralt lets her go, and she moves to get her travel things. 

Jaskier’s mouth flounders, and he takes the full step back this time. 

“Yen?”

The sorceress doesn’t even look up from organizing her bags as she says, “The one with the instrument. I forget his name.”

It’s a testament to Jaskier’s focus on Geralt that he doesn’t snipe back. Geralt puts one hand very deliberately on Jaskier’s cheek. The Witcher sighs. 

“It’s like everyone knows but you.”

He waits for Jaskier to return from wherever his mind has gone. The bard’s mouth flexes like he’s speaking, but for once, no words come out. He alternates between looking at their feet and Geralt’s eyes. He doesn’t hold his gaze for long, back down again. His fingers fiddle with the ring that he hardly takes off. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” he finally whispers. Geralt tilts Jaskier’s chin, urging him to look up. When he does, Geralt sees a world of things he wants to fix. 

“It doesn’t?” He pushes the hand back through Jaskier’s hair, settling at the back of his neck. “How long have we travelled together? You stitch my wounds; you keep my days full. I’ve been an ass, and you’ve never held it against me. We’ve been fucking for a decade. What about that doesn’t tell you I love you, Jaskier?”

“I’m always waiting,” Jaskier breathes, eyes filling, but he can’t look away anymore. “Until we part again. Until you leave.”

Geralt leans in and lays his forehead against Jaskier’s. 

“I’m always waiting until I can see you again.”

Jaskier’s tears spill, and he wraps his arms around Geralt. They both hug fiercely, but for once, neither is afraid to let go. When they part, Jaskier lays the ghost of a kiss on Geralt’s lips. 

“I think I’ll enjoy Kaer Morhen for the winter,” Jaskier says. 

Geralt kisses him again, can’t help but smile. 

“I love you,” Geralt says. 

“I—“ Jaskier stops and kisses Geralt fervently like his lips will shape out what his voice cannot. Geralt smooths his hand down Jaskier’s back. 

No matter. They have all winter to work on it. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy this fluff, feel free to browse my other fics; there are more to come!


End file.
